Tandoori Chicken

Hello dear readers, I’m back!

I needed a little time for my family and for myself but I’m coming back to you to take care of this blog which despite everything I was starting to miss.
For my return I offer you something to prepare a good little meal for the beautiful days to come.

On the menu :

• Tandoori Chicken
• Greek Salad
• Turmeric rice (in the absence of saffron)

The real tandoori chicken is made in a Tandoor, a kind of terracotta oven in which the dish to be cooked is enclosed in bread dough that is stuck on the wall of it.
In the absence of Tandoor, I offer you a recipe that can be done in the pan or on the barbecue.

Tandoori Chicken

Ingredients (for 4 to 6 people):

  • 1kg of chicken (drumsticks or cutlets)
  • 2 Greek yogurts
  • 2 tbsp of lime juice
  • 2 tbsp of ginger
  • 5 garlic gloves
  • 3 tbsp of garam masala
  • 2 tbsp of chilli powder
  • 2 tbsp of cumin
  • 2 tbsp of coriander in powder
  • 1 tbsp of salt

Preparation :

  1. Mix the yogurt, spices, garlic and lemon
  2. Marinate the chicken for 12/24h (personally I cut my chicken cutlets to the size of a bite)
  3. Heat the frying pan or the barbecue then place the chicken. Once it is golden brown brush the rest of the marinade and turn it over. Repeat the operation until the end of the marinade.

Greek Salad

Ingredients (for 4 to 6 people):

  • 1 large tomato per person
  • Chilli oil or a small hot pepper and 2 or 3 tbsp of olive oil
  • 5 or 6 pitted olives to be cut into slices
  • Cubes of feta at your convenience.

Preparation :

Hey it’s a salad! Cut the tomatoes and mix everything together.

Turmeric Rice

Ingredient (for 4 to 6 people):

2 glasses of rice
1 tbsp turmeric
A few unsalted roasted peanuts
(in my dish I did not put any because one of my guests is allergic)

Preparation :

Cook the rice, coarsely crush the peanuts and mix everything with the turmeric.

Enjoy your lunch !

Take care of yourself and your loved ones! See you soon !

Ethereal Stories: The thimble knight

I visited a theatrical costume museum recently, unfortunately the guide was a pretty boy but bearded, always from behind and we were in a group so I didn’t dare to mention that I was deaf. I didn’t understand anything but I had a good time staring at his posterior!
Seriously, I saw pretty old sewing boxes there. I never had the patience to learn sewing but I am always fascinated by the dexterity and meticulousness of the seamstresses and their attention to the smallest details. In short, these sewing boxes inspired me this little story which I hope you will like.

I

Naïa’s grandmother was a fortune-teller. She braided the threads of lives that she bound for eternity. She embroidered the frayed beards of the fabrics of fallen heroes. She sewed rosebuds on faded bodices and veiled taboos to patch up couples. His shop was famous. All the pains of the heart that the canton counted thronged there. And then, one fine morning, as spring was approaching, she died.

When she died, Naïa inherited her sewing box, a cherry wood box whose wood, polished by years of handling, was as soft as a castle banister. It must be said that the object was transmitted from grandmother to granddaughter for more than two hundred years.
When his mother gave it to him, she also handed him a cloth envelope, closed with an embroidered seal, but she specified:
“First take the time to observe what the box contains, Naïa. Your grandmother, by her gesture, designates you as heiress of the gift, but you must do your scales to begin. For that, you have to familiarize yourself with the tools, the materials, that you appropriate them, that you discipline them and when you can sew with your eyes closed an envelope similar to the one I am giving you, then you will be able to look at what ‘it contains. Not before. »
The tone was solemn, it called for no questions, no answers either.
Naïa took the envelope, put it aside and gently opened the box. This had five compartments: that of wool, cotton, silk and linen threads, that of braid and sequins, that of buttons and staples, that of pieces of fabric and that of pins, needles and hook guarded by a silver thimble.
For several weeks, Naïa scrupulously reviewed the contents of the box. She analyzed it, inventoried it, classified it. Finally, when she knew the box by heart, she got down to sewing.
She began with small jobs, the first of which was the making of a black, opaque headband, to learn how to sew blind. Gradually, she became more complex. She systematically did everything twice, once while watching, once blindfolded and, in case of error, started again and again.
She trained for two months before becoming interested in the envelope. Then, she listened to it patiently and tried to reproduce it by choosing her needle carefully. She copied it, several times, looking, applying herself. Finally, when she had acquired perfect control of her gesture, she adorned herself with her blindfold. She often pricked herself, but insisted. It was the embroidered seal that was the most difficult to achieve, but, at the end of June, the envelope was made, identical to that of her grandmother. So she opened the latter and found an enigmatic letter inside.

II

“Naiah,
The gift does not exist. In reality, none of us have ever actually possessed it. It comes from the thimble.
For him to reveal himself, you will have to choose a knight. To do this, follow these instructions:
First, go to the cemetery. Find a grave that holds a brave man, one of those who died in battle – no matter what war they were fighting. Do not choose a deserter, this one will never help you. Find out about his past. Choose a man who loved, without being afraid and without counting, as one throws oneself into an abyss, one needs a passionate being. Choose well, Naïa, you can’t go back, you can’t start again.
As soon as you have found the grave, dig the earth with your bare hands, collect the one that remains hanging under your fingernails and fill the thimble with it. Press well, nothing should fall out when you flip the dice. Filled flush. Water this soil with orange blossom, every morning, for a week, at a fixed time.
Then, slip the die into the envelope you just made. Seal it up, put it in the sewing box and wait to hear it wiggle. At this time, you will open it. »

Naïa went to the cemetery, she noted on a paper the names of the possible pretenders to the title of knight, she searched, in the archives of the city, their feats of arms, their history. She questioned the families, eliminated little by little those who were not suitable, then made up her mind.
She followed her grandmother’s instructions step by step and in the month of November, on the third precisely, the envelope was shaken. Thus was born the knight Lord Emeric of the thimble.

It was tiny: two legs of midnight blue wool, two arms of braided yellow cotton thread, black sequins instead of feet, others, gold, instead of hands and, for a helmet, a press stud; all emerging from his thimble armour. Barely out of the envelope, he seized the spear hook and proud of his new gleam, in a surprisingly thin voice, spoke to Naïa:

— Good day, lady, what can I do for you?
Naïa was surprised by the tone and the formula which contrasted with the sudden familiarity, but probably that was how a knight spoke. She was not disconcerted:
— Hello, Lord! I will call you Lord, it will be easier. In reality, I don’t know yet what you can do since I don’t yet know what you can do. What can you do ?

Lord then declaimed:
“I am the anti-heartbreaker
The Tailor of Woven Fates
The ardor mechanic
The healer of wounded loves! »

What lyricism, boastfulness! Naïa told herself that she had not chosen the most humble of knights…
“Perfect, Lord, but, in practice, how does it work?”

— I do not know, Naïa. By crowning me a knight of the thimble today, you awaken great powers that I have never before been confronted with. But do not be afraid, my dear, I nobly carry out the tasks, which with honor, they come to entrust to me.
— Okay… let me think.
— My devotion will be as it always was: flawless. No one can claim that in the past I fled before the slightest obstacle or that I refused to face…
— Shut up, Lord, please! I said, “Let me think”!
— Certainly, I consent to it, but when Lady Fortune unites, as here…
— Lord!
— Damn, but if…
— Stop!
— If it suits you.

Naïa had, until then, followed her grandmother’s instructions, but it was clear that she was coming to the end of her roadmap. Sitting in the workshop that had served as a shop, in front of her sewing box, associated with an elf hungry for archaic words of which the tomb had deprived her, Naïa began to doubt the relevance of her choice. She was proud of the hopes placed in her and wanted to prove herself worthy of them, but it had to be admitted that the situation was funny. She was going to have to discipline Lord whose verve exasperated her, but above all find how to use her “powers” to work for the happiness of all.

Naïa thinks that her knight needed a mission that would serve as a trial run to test his abilities. She knew that the Tellier sisters were angry, she told herself that reconciling them could constitute a first challenge whose consequences, in the event of failure, would be limited. However, she preferred to act in the shadows.
So she submitted the idea to Lord and waited for his instructions. This one, perhaps offended by the fact that she had molested him, was, this time, concise: it was necessary, to begin with, that she bring him back a few hairs from each of the Telliers. Naïa therefore waited, hidden in the thickets, in front of their home and as soon as they left, broke in, inquired about their brushes in the bathroom and took her loot there.
As soon as she returned to the workshop, she handed her treasure to Lord. He seized it religiously, settled down cross-legged on the table and began to weave. He metamorphosed thus concentrated. Naïa looked at him, fascinated. A ballet was a ballet, there was so much grace in his gestures. He worked in silence, skilfully mixing brown and blond hair with cotton and silk threads. When he was done, he handed Naïa a one-centimeter square that she detailed on the count. She then discovered, in the intertwining of fibers, a complex pattern of great finesse that looked like a cabalistic sign.
The next day at the market, the Tellier sisters laughed together in front of the fishmonger’s stall.
It was time to reopen the store.

III

Naïa saw a lot of people marching by as soon as trade resumed. The division of labor between her and Lord was simple. She received customers, served them tea, made them sit down and questioned them. Lord, hidden in the sewing box, was listening. Then they debriefed. Lord then drew up the list of what he needed, then, after Naïa had provided him with the necessary material, sat down on the table – like the very first time –, the open box at his side, and began his work. .
On the weekends, when the shop was closed, Lord gave Naïa sewing challenges and Naïa gladly played. Lord was still winning, but Naïa was constantly improving.
Years passed like this, many conflicts were settled, one would have thought that the region was a huge game of go where dark designs were followed by the return of white innocence. The reputation of the shop no longer stopped at the borders. So, six years after Lord and Naïa met, Ludmila entered the shop.
Naïa, barely arrived, had just opened the box to say hello to the knight when this beautiful sixty-something Russian entered. Dumbfounded by her beauty, Naïa did not have the reflex to close the box in time. The damage was done…

This woman was a doll with white hair and high cheekbones, rosy with the coolness of the air. In his intelligent eyes, of a blue “heart of a glacier illuminated by the sun”, there was a strange mixture of firmness and softness. Her clothes of splendid fabrics, from the dress to the coat, were only shimmering.
Naïa, captivated, welcomed him with deference, as one welcomes a princess… And Lord came out of his box declaiming:

— Madam, I have been looking for you for so many years.
That’s when it all went wrong… Ludmila pocketed the thimble with everything it contained and ran away.
Naïa could not catch up with her.

Despite her efforts to continue to treat pain, restore souls, quench sorrows, without Lord, Naïa could not repair everything. But she didn’t lose hope and bought a thimble…maybe the gift would come back.

Naïa died six months ago. Today, I managed to make, with my eyes closed, an envelope identical to the one she gave me. My mother told me her story. Tomorrow, I will go to the cemetery, I will look for a knight and then, we will see if the gift accepts to manifest itself again.

The End

Colombo-style grills

Today we were supposed to organize a barbecue with my friends. (yes we were a bit optimistic) and unfortunately the weather wasn’t good (it was predictable) so I had to cook everything in the oven but we ate well anyway.
In short, I offer you a very simple little recipe that changes a little from the usual barbecue sausages.

Ingredients (for 6):

  • 12 chicken drumsticks
  • 3 tablespoon spice mix for Colombo (recipe on the bottom)
  • 2 Greek yogurts
  • 3 garlic gloves
  • 1/2 tea spoon of mustard
  • sesam seeds

Preparation:

  1. Mix Colombo spices with yogourts, crush garlics and mustard;
  2. Marinate the chicken for at least one hour;
  3. Add the sesam seeds and cook them on the barbecue or in the oven for 45 min at 200°celsius
  4. Heat the marinade in a saucepan. Serve the chicken with rice and a little hot marinade.

Recipe for Colombo spice mix :

  • 30g turmeric powder
  • 20g coriander seeds
  • 20g mustard seeds
  • 15g sweet paprika
  • 10g cumin seeds
  • 10 g powdered ginger
  • 10g black pepper
  • 5g fenugreek seeds
  • 5g ground cardamom
  • 4g fennel seeds
  • 3g star anise
  • 1g powdered nutmeg

I hope you’ll like it! See you soon guys.

Ethereal Stories: Tear

Today I offer you a science fiction story inspired by the latest IPCC reports. It’s not very optimistic. For me it is high time that we move our ass to act but I have the impression that most world leaders do not give a damn because it won’t affect their generation.
I promise I’ll try to be in another mood for the next story.

I

A single tear that will never fall clearly stands out on my right cheekbone. My name is Tear. At least, that’s what the inhabitants of the Burrow call me. I have long forgotten the first name chosen by my parents, perhaps I never even knew it.
— Tear! Tear! Bring your butt, we found something!
It’s Cio’s voice. I wonder what they could find this time.
I take off at a run. I descend the steep slope overlooking the Burrow. A mixture of sand and loose stones rolls under my feet, I will soon have to think about getting back on the road. Cio is waiting for me at the bottom of the drop and leads me towards the crowd. I jostle the pock-faced twins Rari and Tul. They let me pass without flinching.

— What is that ?

— We do not know. We thought you would know.
I lean over and look at the metal box pitted with rust, it almost crumbles to dust.
“How did you find that?”
— It’s little Marr, he fell to the bottom of a crevasse. We tried to fish him out, but it was too late, he was in bad shape, his legs where his arms were, if you know what I mean.
I nod in silence, I’ve seen too many bodies dislocated by the fatal falls that are repeated at each bivouac.
Rari continues by cutting Cio off:
— At the bottom, we discovered a kind of very hard piece. Half of it had collapsed, but we were still able to get in. There were plenty of empty boxes except one, and inside was this. Another box. I look again. They have just opened the small chest. Cio protests:
— I’m the one telling! It was me who found the box, so it’s me who tells… Do you understand?
Rari and Tul start laughing.

— Ok, chief, it is you who tell.
I really like both boys, they live by their own rules. They follow the Walkers, but rarely mix with the Pack except when rescuing one of our own. This time, unfortunately, the rescue came to nothing. Petit Marr went there, like many.
Cio is carefully taking out a rectangular object wrapped in a sort of dry, cracked skin, and opens it very slowly, as if he was afraid that the inanimate structure would suddenly come to life.
— Oooooh! marvels little Lota.
A book, a real book, as old Roy described it to us. This one is different: instead of the words we can’t decipher, there are color drawings.
Everyone tries to see over their neighbor’s shoulder, the jostling begins, and it’s still the twins’ turn to calm the little band gathered at the entrance to the North maze.
Cio places the book in my hands, a proud smile on his chapped lips. I open to the first page, a few words are drawn on the top of the document, I squint, we don’t know how to read this, nobody knows. I continue, the rest is easier, these are images. I know what it is. Old Roy, before he died, explained everything to me. That’s why others respect me, I’m the one who knows.

Our history is oral, we no longer write it. Each Pack has a Storyteller, guardian of memory. I am a Storyteller, I have the memory of the world.
I sit on the ground, in the dust, and look at the orange sky. Our lookouts have not sounded the alarm, we still have a little time before the rains arrive. I raise my arm and show the first image.

— It is a tree.
I hear “oh” and “ah” all around me. One after the other, the band settles on the ground.
— Is a tree what feeds the planet? asks little Lota, the smartest of the group in my opinion.
She has not reached the age of eight and I hope she will survive a few more years. I’ll teach him the history of the world like old Roy did before me.
— Yes, Lota, the trees fed the earth and the earth fed us.
— I would like to see one for real, exclaims Cio, the dreamer.
Everyone nods.
— We are the Walkers, one day our steps will take us where the trees still exist.
— Is it true that trees make clear rain?
I nod and turn the second page. Another tree.
— Plants create clear rain and offer it as a gift to men.
— Why aren’t we allowed gifts?
It’s Sven’s voice, I didn’t see it coming. I can’t take my eyes off his dirty face, his blue eyes shine fiercely, he is my rock, my stability, my reason to go on and on.
— The elders have decided otherwise,” Lota answers tit for tat.
Definitely, this little one surprises me from day to day. Sven sniffs and drops to one knee before whispering in my ear:
— Come on, I need to talk to you.
I get up and give the book back to Cio.

— Put it back in the box to protect it and bring it home, with the rest. Has anyone notified little Marr’s mother?
The twins nod and I smile sadly at them, then join Sven who is waiting for me a little further.
— What is it ?
— We have to leave.
— When ?
I never question Sven’s common sense. He is not mistaken. He knows the stone, he guesses the moment when it will no longer hold and will end up burying us all.
— Tomorrow, the day after tomorrow at the latest.
— The Trackers have found a location?
— Yes, but the walk will be difficult. We are going to lose people.
I sigh and lean my forehead against his chest. He says nothing, but uses me against him.
— We’ll take Lota. The twins and Cio will follow.
Sven rests his chin on the top of my head.

— As you want, but in case of rain, it will be every man for himself.
The law of the strongest, as always.

II

The watchmen’s horn sounds. A long hoot followed by a shorter one. This is the signal to warn of impending rain. Sven sits up and grabs my hand before running. I check in passing that the gang is no longer outside; they must have bolted at the first warning.
The northern maze is ours: Lota, Cio, Rari, Tul, Jay, who has found his place among the Trackers, Sven and me. This is the most dangerous part of the Burrow, we are used to it, we always choose the least easy, the least livable. Over time, we became strong and independent. Others fear and envy us.
— The lookouts have shit in their pants again, laughs Cio.
Lota interrupts him:
— Better too soon than too late.
— Well, it’s not as if we had ever narrowly failed to dissolve the mouth. We all have a scar to prove it.
His gaze passes over the tear that digs into my flesh and makes me look nostalgic. Forgotten memory of my childhood. I don’t know how it happened. My parents died a long time ago, I have always carried this symbol of sadness, this mark that nature engraved on my face.

Acid rain began hundreds of years ago. It all started with the disappearance of oil. The last stripe sucked from the bowels of the Earth left the world in total disarray. Other energies were put in place to fill the gap, but the demand was too great.
The wind turbines did not produce enough, the nuclear ended up being abandoned during the last accident which made Japan and Korea disappear unified. Tidal and solar power was used until the last moment, but the brown cloud definitely put a stop to any future attempts.
The earth is turning in slow motion. The sunlight hardly reaches us anymore, we die slowly, drowned in a muddy chiaroscuro.
Old Roy told me all that, and even more.
At first, American researchers had the brilliant idea of ​​melting our waste to reproduce the lost fossil energy. For a few years, the world regained its former flamboyance. Planes flew in the sky, machines worked for the well-being of the population, trade had never been so flourishing. Then the Day of Tears came. The first acid rain took everyone by surprise, ravaging cities and countryside, killing animals, crops, people.
During the first decades, scientists were hopeful that everything would stop and that the water in the sky would become pure again. Unfortunately, the years passed and the land turned into a desert. The survivors became hermits, protecting themselves in the caves, the only ones capable of resisting the acidity of the sky. Water and food soon became a problem. There was no shortage of acts of barbarism, the strongest survived.
We are piss children, as Cio says. We learned to distill urine. I never drank anything else. Life expectancy has been halved. We don’t have many old people among us. Their urine is too ammoniated, they live together and die together, poisoned by their own fluids.
We feed on insects and anything we can find edible and smart enough to avoid the rains.
We have become nomads. The rock protects us, but wears out quickly and we need to find something stronger day after day.
The Trackers locate the habitable places, it is up to us to make them our home for a few weeks before the inevitable march which will not fail to arrive sooner or later.
Pregnant women are the most protected, if we don’t want the human species to die out, we must reproduce ourselves in sufficient quantity.
Sven is ready, he thinks we should try.
Everyone is free to choose their partner, but sometimes gangs of Reproducers arrive, they only target women of childbearing age, we have never found any of them.
Old Roy only divulged the history of the planet to his successor: me, in this case. He said it was no good taunting survivors, that if we understood what the planet had once been like, jealousy, anger and disappointment would destroy what little hope we had left.
I do not envy our ancestors. My limited imagination cannot envision the extraordinary.

III

We find Cio and the others in the northern maze. They have all heard the news of the imminent departure and are already packing up their meager possessions, except Lota, who remains motionless in the middle of the dark excavation.

— What is it ? Cio stole your rag again? – this piece of ageless fabric that she drags everywhere.
She shakes her head negatively.

— I do not want to leave.
— We must leave this cave or we will die, you know that very well.
— What if the rain stops?
— What if she didn’t stop?
Lota sighs, she has no choice, she has to walk. Sven pulls me into our corner, his gaze serious, his jaw tense.
— I spoke with Jay, the Stalkers who returned brought with them a Walker. A rumor is circulating. He stops and tests my face with his eyes so blue.

— A rumor ? You know rumors have killed more men than the rains.
— This time it’s different. The Walker comes from the West, he says the rains have almost stopped there. He has made it his mission to transmit information as far as the Russian republic.
Sven raises an eyebrow, he doesn’t know what the Russian republic is. The Walker is a Storyteller without a doubt. I explain in two words where the place is located and ask:
— What does Jay think?
— He says it’s the first time a sane traveler has come to us. He speaks coherently and can answer questions without rambling.
— What have the Stalkers decided?
— That we would go west.
— Do you really think the rains will ever stop?
— No, but we’ll go west all the same.
— What will we find there?” A toxic ocean that we can never cross. We know it, you and I have seen it with our own eyes. The world stops at the seas. Do you remember the swamps? How many died? Ten, thirty, a hundred?
Sven grabs my face between his two hands and follows my motionless tear with his fingertips. It has a strange delicacy that only I can see.
— Lota needs to believe it. Cio says nothing, but he’s scared. The twins told me that they had heard him cry in his sleep. And you…
I sigh. My eyes, accustomed to the darkness, spot a gray bat, with thick fur and fangs several centimeters long. She will not hesitate to attack. It too must survive. I push Sven to the side and throw the stick I keep in my belt. He twirls around and catches the animal’s wing, which falls heavily to the ground. Sven picks it up and snaps the back of his neck without flinching. We will have meat tonight.
He faces me now and resumes as if nothing had happened:

— And you ? Wouldn’t you like to feel safe? He raises the poor animal which hangs limply at the end of his arm and continues: wouldn’t you want to eat your fill every day?

— And if we fail?
Sven points to the cave with his hand.
— We’ve failed before, we just have to start over, doing better this time.
I nod slowly and meet his gaze. I read there the determination and the fear too.
Lota joins us, she drags behind her her travel bag ingeniously equipped with wheels, an idea of ​​the twins. The little girl’s eyes are circled in black. Concern can be read on his young face.

— Everybody is ready.
We are the vanguard, we will lead the way and if we survive then the Pack will follow.
Sven ruffles her hair.
— Go find Jay and tell him we won’t be leaving until tomorrow, we’ll be walking at night when the rains are less frequent.
Lota walks away, her steps lightened by this respite of a few hours. My eyes betray my incomprehension.

— Why tomorrow ?
‘Because this will be our last trip.
My heart squeezes painfully in my chest. We will only travel west once. Our group is dying.
— We will create our own world, better and wiser. We will live in the open air and the trees will watch over us. You have told us so often. I want to see the earth as it is described in the books you jealously guard. I want to have children and I want to grow old, he explains to me with new seriousness.
I nod without being able to say a word, my throat tight. Hope is foolish, we shouldn’t get attached to it and yet…
Tonight we will sleep in each other’s arms and tomorrow, with bellies perhaps full of new life, we will walk.

The end

Zeppoles for an aperitif with friends

Today, with the arrival of sunny days and the desire to get together with friends, I have a salty Zeppole recipe for you for an aperitif, but in my own way. Normally Zeppoles are a kind of salty or sweet Italian donut. My secret to making my donuts tasty is the potato.

Ingredients:

  • 500g potato
  • 2 eggs
  • 7g of dry yeast
  • 80ml of milk
  • 500g flour
  • Anchovies or pitted olives for the stuffing
  • Salt
  • frying oil

Preparation:

  1. Boil the potatoes and mash them once cooled
  2. Add the eggs, yeast, milk, salt and flour.
  3. Knead until you obtain a smooth dough (the more the dough is moist, the softer the Zeppoles will be) it’s up to you to add milk or flour to obtain the desired consistency.
  4. Cover with a tea towel and let it rest for 2 hours until it doubles in size.
  5. Stuff them with anchovies, olives or both (or whatever you want I also do with slices of sausage with herbs) then fry them in the deep fryer for 3 to 4 min.

Enjoy your meal.

Ethereal Stories: Rebirth

A personal version of my favorite Andersen tale. I hope you will like it.

Rebirth

I

I am different. I have always been. For my mother, it’s as if I were an extra-terrestrial. But having no place among those hanging around on a mound of dirt doesn’t seem so bad, when you have the whole sea as your home…
If I could properly redefine the terms myself, I would say that they were similar to each other; not that I was different. They were the ones who looked nothing like me; who had neither my ardor nor my boldness.

At the first rays of the sun across the big blue, you had to be up already, doing the healthy breaststrokes of the morning, in order to thank the day for having put an end to one more night; in our beliefs it meant that the end of the world was still far away.
In this precise order, you had to let the whales, huge and graceful, pass first. Then came the turn of sea turtles, accompanied by molluscs. Afterwards, in a rainbow torrent, a whole flock of diverse, multicolored fish rained down, some more cheerful than the others. And finally, the parade of mermaids, in well-ordered rows, from our coastal cave to the coral reef, without forgetting to always throw the first fin stroke from left to right. Always ! This, orchestrated with the most perfect harmony in the azure and salty blue of an awakening sea.
“Stand up straight on your tail! I heard my mother grumble every morning. “Brows up! All, without exception, gave themselves up with grace and zeal to this abominable morning masquerade. And to close the show, it took hours to harvest enough seaweed for the day’s meals. Aren’t they fed up? As soon as I reached puberty, I withdrew from these activities. My rebellious behavior had ended up driving a wedge first between my mother and me, then between the other mermaids and me. The difference was scary. They didn’t look like me, so they kicked me out.

II

I liked it better in my corner of the sea, waving my massive tail softly, my beautiful brush set with precious stones in my hands, languidly combing my abundant hair. I had found a secluded, deep space not far from the reef where I could snuggle up in the hold of an old ship that had sunk. He was massive. Wonderful. He bore his name well; “La Santa Ma…” printed on its side. The Santa Madonna? Santa Marianna? Santa Maria…? That was all that was legible; “La Santa Ma”… The rest had been erased, and destroyed. I wonder what hair-raising adventure this boat has had… At its prow stood a magnificent woman’s trunk; she had a haughty bearing, her arm firmly raised, and her hair frozen in the direction of the wind. Sometimes I tried to talk to her, to find out her story, but she kept the secret of her eternity to herself, her gaze lost in the distance.
Time crashed heavily like waves as I hid in this haven. I contented myself with swallowing what fell under my fins; small crustaceans, worms, sometimes even shrimp hidden here and there in the hold of the boat. But no algae. I could no longer bear this vegetal taste which marked in bitter letters the dreary and monotonous existence of a siren. There had to be something more than just existing. And one night, I discovered it.
The Big Blue had fallen into a deep sleep that night. Inky night on land, and under sea. Only the distant glow of a timid moon glided over the almost motionless surface of the water; grain of light in my salty night.

III

Not a single small fish in sight. Everything was sleeping. Except those above….
Suddenly I felt a call. From the top. He was powerful. Like a punch to the heart. He was almost overpowering my own will. I perceived moreover, a metallic scent, delicious, new, that I did not know. I soared towards that call, cutting through the sea. I carefully stuck my head out of the water, dazzled by mysterious hymns emitted to the tribal sound of the drum, by a crowd of restless earthlings dressed in white. One of them saw me and exclaimed:

— There it is…the water spirit! She heard us!

Saying this, he grabbed an empty conch shell and began to blow with all his might. A bewitching sound made me shiver and prompted me to reveal myself then in full to them, erect on my large shimmering emerald tail, garlands of pearls at my belt. They were much smaller than in my memories, these earthlings. Dead silence. They all knelt down. Except one, waist deep in water, who seemed to implore me with a whimper. He was restrained by heavy chains. Looking at him I understood that he had been beaten. The metallic smell became stronger, more insistent, so I approached him, looking for the source of this intoxicating aroma that had pulled me out of my hole. Staring at his dripping wrist, I then discovered that red, throbbing elixir tickling my gills from the depths.

— What is your name, spirit?! I was shouted
— I am Simbi, I answered.
— Accept our sacrifice, mistress of the waters, and give us back the rain!

How? ‘Or’ What ? I was just a simple mermaid. What power did I have over nature to the point of extracting the rain from it alone?
I had never touched a hair of an earthling; but by the time I came to my senses, there was nothing left but chains reddened by the feast I had just enjoyed. I had crunched many times, while an explosion of new flavors made me vibrate from my claws to the tip of my cock. I cheerfully licked my fingers, my arms, my lips. I wanted more, I wanted more…I approached the shore, beckoning the other earthlings to join me in the scarlet water…
A flash of lightning streaked across the sky. And the clouds began to cry, the birth of a sea monster…

The End

Ethereal Stories: Of Ice and Swords

I found old fantasy books at a flea market and I had a strong desire to write some. I started a notebook with lots of little ideas that I think could make a good story, if one day I take the time to develop it all. In the meantime, here is something to give you a glimpse of a very small part of the universe in question.

Of Ice and Swords

I

Lyra put down her cold beer, sighing in relief. This truce in the fighting was a real happiness. Legs stretched under the small table ravaged by generations of drunks, she leaned on the back of the chair and savored the ambiance of the tavern. She always missed that warm hubbub when she went on a mission.

— Hey babe, would you like a…

The young woman suddenly raised her head and stared at the giant who had dared to disturb her tasting. He swallowed, cut short in his bluster. Behind him, his comrades were exchanging hearty laughs. Deceived by the slenderness of the leather-clad figure, they did not know what was hidden under the loose hood of the warmage, and had thought they could have fun at her expense. A common mistake.
Lyra tilted her head and raised her eyebrows, daring her troublemaker to add a single word. His icy eye sparkled, and the man stepped back, muttering:

— Sorry, I don’t… sorry.

He turned around, his neck stiff and his shoulders tense, then rejoined his comrades with a jerky step, containing his desire to flee as fast as he could to avoid losing face. He was greeted with a string of surprised questions, which he waved aside, before grabbing a glass and downing it.
Lyra allowed herself a small smirk, and went back to tasting her beer. She pouted when she noticed that the liquid had cooled in the meantime. She reached out with her right index finger, brushed the rim of the mug and watched the frost delicately settle there, then tasted again. It was much better.
A new shadow invades his bubble of tranquility. She smelled of rancid sweat.

— I’m sorry, my Lady, but I… A thousand pardons, but we’d be more comfortable if you avoided using magic here.
— I only chilled that donkey piss you sell like beer.

Lyra’s voice, low and steady, made the innkeeper sweat even more. His bald head began to glow.

— I don’t…yes, of course, but you make my customers nervous, and they…
— Good. I am leaving.

The spell was broken anyway.
The forty-year-old nearly fainted with relief. He stepped back hastily when the young woman got up, and returned to the relative shelter of her counter to resume polishing her glasses. Lyra took a few steps toward the door, then spun around sharply, her hand on the hilt of her shortsword, feeling someone tug on her cloak.

II

A little girl was staring at her, her brown braids all tangled, her nose encrusted with snot. She must have been what, five years old? Six, no more.

— Ma’am, can I come with you?

Lyra smiled, slipped her gun back into its sheath, and looked around for the mother. His gaze only caught terrified faces, which annoyed him to no end. Why, she was not going to eat the kid!

— Say, can I come? I too want to become a war mage!
— Really, baby? Do you want to live in the cold and the mud, be constantly hungry and thirsty, see all your friends die?

The girl’s eyes widened; this description must not match the stories she had heard.
Lyra suddenly wanted to please him, perhaps because she was determined to enjoy her few days off. She reached out and molded a tiny fragment of her power. An ice unicorn appeared on his palm. The mage offered it to the kid, whose face lit up, and took the opportunity to remove her cape from the sticky little hands. Her tranquility regained, she crossed the door of the tavern with a light step, and joined her horse tied to the terrace. The animal, immaculately white, snorts when he sees her come out, tinkling all the buckles of his pale blue harness. She freed him and straddled him lightly, immediately galloping him into the night. Now that she had betrayed her identity, she wanted to get away from this town before the rumor of her passing spread. So close to the border, the village must have been home to a veritable nest of spies.

III

The moon found Lyra still on horseback, and flashed armor in front of Raven’s Bridge. The mage tugged at the reins cursingly, stopping her mount in its tracks. She spun around in the saddle, and saw more soldiers spring up behind her. Trapped! They had been damn quick on that one.
She muttered a few bits of ancient language and a shell of ice covered her like a breastplate. Just in time. An arrow bounces off his left shoulder. The men fanned out to surround him. One of them stood in front of her, and held out a skeletal hand, which clothed itself in flames. Lyra grimaced. War Mage versus War Mage. A nice part of pleasure in perspective.

The wizard’s fire coalesced into an incendiary projectile. When he came face to face, Lyra countered the attack with a wave of ice, but could not dodge the simultaneous charge of the soldiers, who threw her to the ground, causing her steed to flee. She fell heavily on the stones of the path, biting her tongue at the same time, and distributed a whole series of spears of ice around her to buy time to get up. She jumped to her feet, and ducked immediately to avoid another incendiary projectile. He crashed into an enemy soldier and turned him into a human torch. Without worrying about the unpleasant smell of tallow, Lyra charged again: she froze the ground under the feet of the foot soldiers, and drew her short sword. She had time to pierce two unbalanced men, before having to dodge a bluish flame, which grilled an additional assailant and warmed the earth. The others took off.

After several passes, Lyra frowned. The incessant attacks prevented him from concentrating, and therefore from casting powerful spells. Even though they got in each other’s way, the alliance of wizard and soldiers was formidable; she couldn’t do both at the same time. She countered several sword thrusts with an ice shield, which the fire mage immediately melted. A blade slashed the sorceress’ forearm, another brushed her cheek. Good ! It was time to step up a gear.

In a few words, Lyra locked herself in a gangue of thick ice, which her enemies immediately began to break up. One second, two, three… the little iceberg exploded, but it had done its job: the young woman had been able to concentrate enough to shape a spell of greater amplitude. An arrow of ice left his palms and shot up into the clear sky. Its bell trajectory avoided the surprised infantrymen, who did not bother to eliminate it. They charged again, forcing Lyra to protect herself with a new shield, which the fire mage began to pound mercilessly. Lyra’s sword danced and bit into flesh, but it wouldn’t last long. There were still far too many of them.

Feeling his prey weaken, the enemy mage redoubled his efforts. With both hands outstretched, he showered Lyra with heavy projectile fire, forcing her to defend, defend again. He smiled and wiped his sleeve on his forehead. He opened his mouth to fashion a new spell… and collapsed face down, eyes bulging. A huge snow tiger, bursting out of the forest like a cataclysm of violence, left his back and finished him off with a well-placed claw. Lyra, taking advantage of the soldiers’ surprise, straightened up and modeled a volley of ice javelins. Now that they were no longer protected, the men were dropping like flies. One of them tried to run away, but in two leaps the beast was on top of him.

Epilogue

The young woman staggered and fell, kneeling in the earth soaked with vital fluids, dropping her sword. Covered in blood, exhausted, she forced her breath back to normal and felt her heart slow down, calm down. She lifted the spell that drained her remaining energy; the snow tiger once again became Yo’lbars, his placid steed, which immediately put its nose in the grass, indifferent to the surrounding scene of carnage.
Lyra surveyed the modest battlefield, and smiled. Eighteen to one. Not so bad for a first day off.

A few miles away, a tiny girl was dreaming of a magical battle and her lips, rustling in her sleep, practiced pronouncing the ancient spells. A tiny unicorn of ice adorned her frost-covered bedside table…

The end

Ethereal Stories : Connected Beings

I don’t know why, I wanted to write about a love story for some time. Surely a consequence of the sentimental desert in which I have been wandering for some time now! 😅
I promise I didn’t write a touching romantic story and I think the ending might surprise you.
Good reading guys.

Connected Beings


I

What sets them apart has always been sentiment. Some simulate them, others live them. For 137 years now that the android and Man have shared the same planet, their relations have evolved considerably. From docile and submissive servants, they became confidants, sometimes even friends, then even more so for some. But the feeling will inevitably remain this irremediable difference, this gap separating the room made of nuts and bolts from a living heart.

Robots, by definition, are predictable. Their simulacra of emotions are designed, programmed by humans, and if the physical difference is less and less perceptible, the robots gradually becoming androids, then humanoids, perfectly imitating the appearance of a man, their emotions are predictable. In fact, their behavior is reassuring, comforting. They don’t rebel. Unless they are designed for that. They don’t surprise us. Unless we program them for. They carry out orders. And to perfection. They don’t balk, ever. They exist. For us.

II

This state of affairs was what Margot was looking for. Like others before her, like many before her, she had suffered the pangs of bad relationships. She had been heartbroken by the unpredictability of men. The idea initially seemed crazy to her – how can you fall in love with a machine? – but in 2315, this kind of questioning was rare. Humanoid/human relations, if they were not yet the norm, were much more tolerated than during the last century. Mentalities had evolved since the generation of his parents.

Moreover, with the latest updates, humanoids now even simulated the vital needs of humans, they fed themselves and went so far as to imitate sleep to recharge themselves. The very existence of these couples, unable to procreate, had also helped save humanity from overpopulation, ending centuries of deprivation.

Also, when her friend Constance told her about a dating hologram site (impossible to find true love? Schedule it to measure! Satisfaction guaranteed!), she didn’t hesitate for long. She had thus quickly made contact with a holographic secretary who, following a long series of questions and personality tests, had presented her with the ideal humanoid, Henri.

III

Henri wasn’t just perfect for her, Henri was literally made for her. She hadn’t had to play games, hadn’t had to seduce him. She hadn’t had to force herself, hadn’t had to lie. She was herself, and he accepted her, he was designed for that, for her. He responded to all her requests, he executed each of her desires. After the chaos that her romantic life had been, Margot was reborn. And thanks to a humanoid, a robot, an artificial being.

During the first times, this thought did not leave her. How can one love a fictional being? Is it even possible? Madame Bovary would certainly approve. But according to the snippets of memories Margot had of her ancient literature lessons, the story had not ended very well for her.

Despite everything, Margot gradually began to surrender to this relationship. It started with small things: she took pleasure in no longer waking up alone in her bed. She liked to take his hand when they walked down the street. She found herself thinking of him when she was working. She surprised herself because she missed him.

The relationship was just like what Margot had always been looking for. Simple, without complications, without this undeniable phase that every couple goes through where one tries to hurt the other. They didn’t argue, or at least enough so that, as Margot had requested during Henri’s programming, their relationship remained credible on a day-to-day basis. Henri was there, his very existence was dedicated to him. She was happy, finally.

IV

Having children had never interested him. She wanted to live for herself, not to be at the service of another being who would deform her body and cost her all her time and energy by even coming into the world. So being with Henri was the perfect solution, and Love at First Contact guaranteed to schedule it without her ever having to. The illusion had to be perfect, never show any flaws.

She managed to forget that he wasn’t human. His reactions, his attentions, what he seemed to desire, everything in him breathed life, and if Margot had been afraid, from her previous contacts with humanoids, that carnal contact was not natural and broke the imposture, Henri’s skin, his eyes, his hair, his mouth, everything seemed authentic, everything felt authentic. The simulacrum was perfect, the lie became a reality, a utopia.

V

The years passed. Quiet, sweet, peaceful years.

If his friends were surprised at first by this choice of life, they quickly understood. Men remained far too complex mysterious beings and Henri made Margot happy, that’s all they asked for, that was enough for them, they accepted it.

It was less simple for her parents, who however ended up getting used to it over time when they saw their daughter blooming. The subject was only brought up during a few jokes from his brother during Sunday family meals.

Margot was aging well, her hair didn’t stand white, and the wrinkles didn’t seem to find a hold on her face. Henri meanwhile was getting older, and it showed. His laughter was now written in the corner of his eyes, his hair had taken on a salt and pepper hue, his hands were becoming more gnarled. Margot had probably asked for real-time aging, but with her time she forgot about it.

But after a few decades of relationship, she came to consider changing the model. Henri’s programmed nature still appealed to her on a day-to-day basis – which she could always keep afterwards – but the physical aspect became less attractive over time. If her holographic interview was now far in her past, she was convinced that she would never have asked for it with a belly for her old age, as small as she was. The illusion was becoming too perfect and she preferred to stay in her simulation.

Epilogue

As a courtesy, a strange thing when you’re talking to a machine, which she considered almost like a human now, she warned him one morning in April that she was going to contact the agency again to do what she called in her mind a “youthful update”, but which she formulated in front of Henri as an “improvement in their relationship” (could the humanoids be offended?):

— You will not be able to get what you want my dear, Henri replied calmly.
— We have the means. I know humanoids earn less than humans, but I’ve been saving up for a while, I’ve inquired about prices. I still want you, your spirit, everything we’ve been through together, I’ll only ask for a physical change.
— Honey, how old are you?
— 48 years old in three months, you know it well, we’ve been together for more than 20 years!”

Margot did not understand where Henri was coming from. He remained oddly calm but his answers made no sense to her. Was his programming starting to have flaws? Bugs?

— And how are you physically?” Henri continued to question her.
— Well…I’m lucky, my mother is still very well preserved for her age, we have good genes in the family.
— Margot, you don’t have any wrinkles or gray hairs. You are never sick, never exhausted. You always sleep well. You are always happy.
— Yes, thanks to you! What do you want to tell me ?!

Henri walked over to her, made her sit down on one of the chairs in their dining room and took her hands in his. He looked her straight in the eye:

— Margot, you can’t get what you want because I’m not a robot. You are you. You are a model humanoid designed not to know that he is a robot. How can we best simulate a feeling? Quite simply by being persuaded to live it. The illusion became perfect because the subject would not be aware of lying. The lie is no longer a lie when it is unconscious.
— But… well… it’s impossible,” she mumbled, “so you would have spent your life pretending to be a robot?”
 — Yes, because like so many others, I sought ease. My life did not suit me, I was alone, I had no one. A new experimental program promised to sustain me all my life, I had only to play the game of perfect love to develop their new technology… you. What would you have done in my place?
— No, you’re playing a bad joke on me and I don’t like it, I have a family! Friends ! All these people exist!
— They are also humanoids, Love at first contact has prepared for all eventualities, the illusion had to be perfect. You’re a Margot machine, but a machine I’ve come to love.
— I…I…I…”

Margot’s eyes widened, she stammered, unable to make complete sentences. She had a spasm. His eyes closed. His neck relaxed. His body sagged in his chair, his head falling back on the table.

Henri, still calmly, took out of his pocket a latest model holographic telephone, paid for by the organization. He pressed the third number among his favorites. After two rings, a familiar voice answered:

— Hello welcome to Love at first contact, what can I do for you?
— Hello Diane, this is Henri. The last model did like the others, he did not accept his condition. Do you reprogram a new one with yesterday’s backup and send me the next one?

The End

Pressgurka

To change the pastries a bit, I offer you a more compatible recipe to prepare our “Summer bodies”!

Finally something with an easy-to-say name for non-Danes!

This is pressgurka

At the same time, pressgurka is not Danish, it is a Swedish recipe. It literally means pressed cucumber and as its name suggests, it is pressed cucumber that is marinated in vinegar and sugar.

Personally, I do it very often. I use it to accompany my meat or fish, every time I organize a barbecue. It’s fresh, light and really easy to prepare, although you have to do it a little in advance.


Pressgurka

Ingredients

  • 1 cucumber
  • 1 teaspoon of salt
  • 100ml water
  • 4 tablespoons of white vinegar
  • 3 tablespoons powdered sugar
  • 3 tablespoons chopped fresh dill

Instructions

  1. Cut the cucumber into thin slices using a mandolin.
  2. Place the cucumber slices in a colander and coat them with salt.
  3. Place a dish on the cucumber and add a weight on top (for example 2 kg of flour) and let it drain for 1 hour.
  4. Boil the water and stir in the vinegar and sugar. Stir until the sugar dissolves.
  5. Leave to cool and add the dill.
  6. Remove the weight from the cucumber and squeeze it by hand.
  7. Transfer the cucumber slices to a large bowl or a glass jar and pour the mixture of water, vinegar, sugar and dill over them.
  8. Mix well.
  9. Refrigerate for 3 hours before serving.

A jar usually lasts 3 or 4 days when I’m alone, there must be 8 portions I think.

I hope you’ll like it!

Take care of yourself and your loved ones! See you soon.

Bis Repertita: Bis cinema

I really like cinema in general with a preference for science fiction and fantasy, but I haven’t talked too much about a type of cinema that I particularly like, Bis cinema.

Alright, but what is Bis cinema?

Let’s go back to four names that may come up often in the future if I want to be able to talk about these films:

Genre cinema

The B-series

The Z-series

The exploitation cinema

Genre cinema:

I’ve already talked about it here but to make it short, it’s all action movies, horror, erotic, kung fu… Anything out of the ordinary.

The B-series:

Basically, the B-series refers to the second film that was screened in double sessions in neighborhood cinemas, generally a short-lived genre film, the first film being generally more “normal” or more “classic”. Today, as neighborhood cinemas and double screenings have disappeared, the term B-series is used to designate a genre film shot on a low budget. The main characteristic of these works is to compensate for the lack of means, when they are good, to deploy treasures of ingenuity and an inventiveness which is lacking in a lot of series A. John Carpenter is one of the most famous directors of series B films.

The Z-series:

The Z-series is roughly the same as the B-series, often too ambitious for its means. Often bad, sometimes to the point of becoming funny, some of them can be touched by grace to the point of gradually reaching the status of cult work.

The exploitation cinema:

In exploitation cinema, there is also a question of very low-budget genre films, such as B series, but without any artistic pretension. Their only goal is to be profitable quickly by using what attracts the public the most, violence, sex or both at the same time. This type of film experienced its golden age in the 70s and some exploitation films were so crazy that they themselves created a new cinematographic subgenre which will then be taken up by other exploitation films. more WTF who will in turn create new sub genres etc…
Believe me, there are many, many!

Bis cinema:

Now that we see a little more clearly, let’s move on to my definition. Cinema Bis is therefore:

  • A genre film, series B, series Z or exploitation film with a low budget, popular or not (because there are also non Bis auteur films) which at the time of its release is found despised or ignored by critics, because of the film’s slightly crazy or apart aspect.

What characterizes Bis cinema above all is its inventiveness and its great diversity. What you have to understand is that the Bis is not just one genre, it’s a set of genres.

There is therefore a phenomenal amount of completely lit films from all over the planet, which only look like themselves and some of which still continue to inspire world cinema.

When did the Bis cinema appear?

Historically, it dates from the mid-1950s, at a time when the Hollywood system no longer worked properly and when viewers preferred to stay at home in front of their brand new televisions rather than go and lock themselves in dark rooms.

Faced with the cinemas which were gradually emptying, Hollywood legitimately began to panic and therefore left aside the B series to choose to bet mainly on the great films in color like “Lawrence of Arabia”, “The Bridge on the River Kwaï or “Benhur”. The problem with these spectacular films in natural settings being that they are very expensive to produce and for the sake of economy, it was therefore necessary to relocate filming to Europe, mainly to Italy, Great Britain and Spain.

Technicians from the old continent were therefore able to learn from their American counterparts and realize that there was a place in the field of series B and from there, everyone got into it, English, Italian, Germans, Spaniards and even French.

In the rest of the world:

  • However, cinema bis also sees the light of day in the USA with a man from independent cinema named Roger Corman. He alone will build an empire.
  • In Hong Kong, Shaw Brosers films are getting more and more talked about and are starting to cross borders.
  • In Japan, we exorcise via the cinemas the traumas due to Hiroshima and Nagasaki.
  • In Mexico, genre cinema is developing more and more, particularly with the figure of El Santo

Conclusion:

In short, it’s a real universe that awaits you and that’s precisely what made me want to create a new series of articles called “Bis repetita” to make you discover or rediscover some of these completely crazy films, which hardly appear on television anymore and which, in my opinion, are much more interesting and inventive than the ¾ of the cinema releases.
It’s a daring cinema, badly brought up and sometimes extreme but which tries things and that’s the main thing.

Take care of yourself and your loved ones and see you soon!

PS:

Ukraine is a country with its own history, culture and language. As much as any country, it deserves to keep its own identity and sovereignty.

I have not always (very rarely) agreed with the Ukrainian government but I give my full support to the Ukrainian people!